Lost Souls
by WearerOfCapes
Summary: 'Nothing had been the same since Vince left him. The flat was too quiet, too empty.' Vince is gone. Howard can't start again, however hard he tries. Strong angst, character death, suicide references.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I guess this is one for all you angst lovers out there. I started writing this a little while ago, when I was having a pretty awful time, and I felt like nothing would ever be the same again. And although I was right with that bit, I thought this was something I ought to share with you all. So, here you have it. Lots and lots of angst. Chapters will get longer.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the faintly cliched plot line.**

Howard sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, slowly, methodically burning the newspaper he had kept for two weeks. He tore the pages out, balled them up, and threw them into the flames, starting from the inside and working out. When he reached the front page, he stopped, his eyes reaching the article he never wanted to see. The only way they had been able to describe it was 'broken'. The broken body lying in a pool of blood on the pavement three blocks away. Inky black hair splayed over the paving stones, matted with dried blood. A fresh wave of tears crashed over Howard as he threw the article into the fire. Two weeks was a long time to him now. In those two weeks, they'd identified the body, held the funeral and begun the inquest. So far they suspected suicide. But the funeral had been the worst part. Everyone quiet and sombre, wearing black, tears being shed for him. It wasn't what he would have wanted, Howard knew. But he hadn't made the arrangements; forgotten relatives had come back onto the scene and taken over all planning with cold, emotionless precision. They wanted Howard to empty Vince's side of the room they'd shared. But Howard refused. He still held out a hope, a tiny resilient little hope deep in his heart that Vince was alive. Although how that would be true was a mystery to him. He had seen the body himself, rushed over when he was called, held back by the policemen as he sobbed. Nothing had been the same since Vince left him. The flat was too quiet, too calm. Now there would be no more stupid questions while he was trying to be in a jazz trance; no more mad adventures when he would rather just stay and work in the shop; and no more quiet moments, unsaid words lingering in the air until the right ones came along to make each other smile and laugh and cry. Howard knew that nothing could bring Vince back now. And again he was falling, spiralling deep into the sea of despair and depression he had come to know so well. The ache in his chest was akin to having his heart torn out and left outside of his body, still keeping him alive against all human odds. This was what it was. His heart had been torn out, his one reason for living destroyed. And yet, by some miracle, or possibly divine error, he still lived, his feeble soul pounding on the walls of his mind and screaming. He wanted to escape it all, but where to go? Everything reminded him of Vince. The flat, of course, was difficult, with his clothes still scattered everywhere, his smell permeating their room. Walk around Camden and, before long, you came to the scene itself. The whole city was full of reminders of Vince. The park where they first met; the zoo where they worked for years; the velvet onion, where they had gigged often. It was so difficult to find a place where there was nothing like this. Howard often resorted to sheer unconsciousness to make the pain go away, sleeping as many hours as he could. Yet still Vince was in his shattered dreams, on the edge, on the side-line, taunting him and drifting silently away. And sometimes the long hours of unconsciousness messed up his sleeping patterns. Three times now he had woken up in the early morning. Never had he felt so alone, like there was nothing in the world left for him to live for. That was when the tears came, and when the thoughts came, the darkness and the fear and the sheer atrocity of the world he lived in. The mornings were his darkest times. He wished that he could just end it, finish it all and join Vince wherever he was. But he didn't have the courage to take the pills, to use the knife, to acquire the gun and put it to his head. The days were dark now, and they passed quickly. But that was good. Any lighter and he would have been blinded; any slower and he would have suffocated in the sluggish flow of time. But every day, although he wasn't strong enough to deal it, he wished for death. He wished for something to come along and end this misery, like Vince had seemingly ended his.

**Yeah, kind of depressing. Anyway, let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Yes, I know. Depressing angst. But soldier on for me, please? I promise it's worth it. I only managed a short chapter this time, but it's still at the slightly drabbly stage at the moment, so bear with me. Read on, my friend.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Mighty Boosh :(**

Hailstones pounded the sodden earth, whistling through the chill April air and raining blows on Howard's head. He felt nothing. Sitting on a rickety wooden bench on Hampstead Heath, he was numb. He was wrapped up in a ratty old black trench coat, his hands in his pockets and his head bowed. He had been sitting out in the elements for two and a half hours, and his hair was drenched, the fine brown curls drooping down over his face. The curls Vince had once poked fun at. A month now. And still no sign. The tears had long ago dried up, leaving merely an empty chasm of grief and loneliness. Nabootique was still temporarily closed, its shaman owner not fit to open up yet. Not only was Naboo bereaved by Vince's death, he had fallen ill with some dreadful magical disease. He and Bollo were staying at the shaman lodge to be cared for, and Howard had taken advantage of this to be totally alone where no one else would try to talk to him. Since the incident, he had drawn back even further from the world, couldn't bear to be touched at all, wouldn't make eye contact, found it near on impossible to speak. Still he considered giving up every day. Yet the courage had never shown itself and he lacked the motivation to try and find it. The hail began to slow and he looked up at the grey clouds scudding across the unseasonably cold sky. Calmly, despondently, he sighed. A hailstone hit him and he turned away again, but always kept an eye on the clouds. He was sure now that Vince wasn't coming back. He knew he couldn't, and all his hope that the impossible might happen was gone. So now he knew that he must be up there somewhere. Because there was no way Vince could have not gone to heaven. He was, once you got past the teasing and the name-calling and the vanity, the sweetest person on the planet. He would frown concernedly at Howard when he looked sad, ask him what was wrong, and tell him how to deal with it. Except he didn't anymore. He was just memories now, albeit good ones. When they said at the funeral he would be sorely missed, they had no idea. You couldn't have Howard without Vince. That was like night without day, tears without laughter. Vince had been the sunshine to Howard's monsoon. He still hadn't quite got his head around it. Often he would expect to hear another bad excuse for getting up late, to see him coming home ruffled but happy after a night out, to be woken in the night for some trivial affair. But day after day, he was disappointed, left alone in his guilt and loneliness. Vince had seemed to be, for the most part, a distraction from the things that were important. But he knew now that it was Vince himself who had been the most important thing. And the way things went, he realised, was that you didn't realise what you loved the most until you didn't have it anymore. His love had ended as soon as he saw the crumpled body, the rusty blood mingling with the rain on the road. It was an image that would stay with him forever, however little he wanted it. It had been enough to turn him into this, this seemingly heartless being with no emotion other than misery. But slowly, day by day, the final stage of grief was setting in: acceptance. He knew there was no use in the endless moping, the feelings he had that made no sense to anyone else. He knew Vince had lived a happy life, and that maybe, if he was driven to suicide, he was better off where he was. Maybe pretence could start to take place and he could imagine that everything was okay again. But deep in his mind, he knew he would never be truly happy again.

**Reviews are lovely, like all my readers :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm back with more angst! Please don't hate me for making Howard suffer, I'm sorry :(**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not one thing. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Unfortunately.**

The room spun like a gyroscope as Howard got up out of bed too quickly. The knock at the door was both unexpected and unwanted, but his little sojourn to Hampstead Heath had cleared his head somewhat, perhaps enough for him to put on a believable facade of health and calm. Maybe the caller would have faith in his performance. But then again, maybe they would look beyond the front and into his eyes, eyes haunted by the things he had seen and felt. He padded barefoot down the stairs, running his hands through his hair. He was dishevelled; his hair hadn't been cut for months, and he hadn't shaved for a few days. The caller was becoming impatient, leaning on the front bell. Howard stepped heavily out onto the shop floor, dodged the shelves, and tried the door. It was locked. He shouted for the caller to wait as he took the keys from the hook and unlocked it. The caller had turned away for a moment, their eyes seemingly fixed on the road. But they soon spun back around to face Howard, fear and desperation in their eyes. Their outfit was ragged; torn, missing sequins and stained with what looked like blood. Their pitch black hair was overly long and straggly. Their eyes widened even further as they took in Howard's appearance.

"Howard?" Vince blinked in shock.

"How are you here?" Howard gasped. "I saw you! You were dead!"

"No, it wasn't me, it was him, the pretender, Lance Dior, and the other one took me away, and it was so horrible, and I'm sorry I left, it was so stupid-"

"Shut up." Howard said affectionately, and hugged his best friend close. Before long they were crying on each other's shoulders, ecstatic to have found their worlds again. It was a long time before either of them made an effort to move from the doorstep. Thankfully, it was early enough that passers-by were scarce. But finally, they went back up into the flat. It was still cold, and Vince was shaking, so Howard removed the throw from the sofa and wrapped it around his quivering shoulders. Vince tried at a smile, but it was false, forced. Although they were reunited, it had been so long that neither of them could be sure it wasn't a dream, that they wouldn't blink and wake up somewhere horrific. Howard broke the fractured silence:

"Do you want a drink? Something to eat?"

"I'd like a hot chocolate; it's been a while since I've had one."

"Okay. Is that all?"

"Yeah." Vince's smile was still small, a ghost of his grin, but more genuine. Howard left him sitting on the sofa and set to work making the hot chocolate. He filled the kettle with water and put it on to boil, pulling a tin of cocoa out of the cupboard and flicking four spoonfuls into a mug. He went nearer to the sofa and leant on the back. Vince jumped in fear, but calmed himself as he saw Howard's concerned face.

"Sorry. You know, things have been... Bad." he finished lamely.

"I know. Things have been bad here too."

"I guessed they would be. Where's Naboo, he might be able to help?"

"Vince... Naboo's ill. Really ill. He's staying with the shamans and Bollo."

"Oh, god. Is he getting better?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him for a week. They wouldn't tell me anything when I asked."

"Oh, god. Howard, this is my fault, isn't it?"

"No. That was coincidence."

"Well, what's this then?" he gestured at Howard. "That's surely not coincidence too?" Howard hesitated before replying:

"No. This is because of you. I thought you were dead, Vince. I didn't have a reason to live. I just thought, why should I keep doing this? So I didn't."

"I'm so sorry." Vince whispered. "I'm sorry I put you through that. I had no idea. I thought a couple of hours ago you'd have missed me, but I thought you'd have gotten over it. I didn't think it'd last so long or be so hard." Howard hesitated for a long time.

"Did you want to leave, Vince?" he asked softly.

"No! I never wanted to go! He made me, and then I couldn't get back, and it was like I forgot everything-" Tears were coming back to his eyes. Howard wanted to comfort him, so he ignored the dread of contact and let Vince cry on his shoulder again. This was wrong, he knew it. All trace of happiness was gone from his face, his sunshine hidden behind a cloud of confusion. Feeling the sobs wracking his body and making his shoulders shake, it wasn't normal. This wasn't how they should be, both trapped in a rising flood of melancholy and sorrow. Vince took a long, shaky breath and looked up at him, and Howard noticed that his eyes had faded from their normal cornflower blue to a pale grey, devoid of any optimism.

"I'm sorry, Vince." He said. "I didn't mean… It's a bit like… I don't know."

"Neither do I." Vince's head bowed, and he tucked his legs up beneath him. Howard had never seen him look so small, so vulnerable. He didn't have the words to say to make it any better, so he merely got up and made the hot chocolate he had promised Vince. He placed it down on the coffee table and sat down next to his friend. Vince immediately picked up the mug and held it tightly, warming his hands. Howard turned a little to face him, and said:

"Vince, I need to ask you something. Can you tell me what happened to you?" Vince was silent for a long time, but eventually the letters and words came together in a waterfall that flowed from within him faster than the tears had come:

"I guess it started on the Thursday. The fifteenth of March, I think. We had a stupid little argument about something. I think you were playing jazz out loud, and it was making me ill. Well, I went to bed early, and I was just thinking about how often we argue now, and how horrible it was. I fell asleep, that didn't take long, but then I woke up again at about two in the morning. I couldn't get back to sleep, and I was going to wake you up and ask if I could talk to you. But I didn't think you would have liked it, so I got dressed and went for a walk. And it was really clear outside, really beautiful, and I could see all the stars. But I wanted to see more. There's that block of flats not far away, about three blocks, and I went to the top of it to look at the city. And it looked amazing, all lit up, but I wasn't on my own for long. I was just standing there, not quite on the edge, and they were there. The pretenders, the ones who like to think they're better than us. Lance Dior and Harold Boom. They noticed me, and they started pushing me about, and calling me stuff, stuff I won't repeat. And I couldn't get away cause I was so close to the edge, so I started pushing back. I don't really know what happened, me and Lance must have switched places somehow, because he was on the edge, and he was almost hovering for a second, and he just fell. I wanted to call an ambulance, but Harold wouldn't let me. And then he called me Lance, and I realised he thought it was me who'd fallen. I just played along until we got out of the building, I didn't know what else to do. But when we got down there, he realised that it was Lance, and he just turned on me. Beat the living daylights out of me; he knocked me out pretty quickly. I woke up in a house, and it was weird because it just looked normal. But he was there again, and it was like… like he was going mad. He was twitching about, and I didn't understand what he was saying. And he had a needle full of some sick stuff. He just emptied it into my arm, and I was trying to move but he'd tied me down to something and I couldn't. I was out like a light again, just like that. And the next time I woke up, it was like… everything had changed. I don't know if he'd moved me or if it was just the drugs. And he gave me some more. And somehow… I started to believe it was you, Howard. I thought you were hurting me. I started struggling, and he was just laughing and laughing… But the next time I woke up was the weirdest. He injected me with that stuff again, and then he undid the knots and just left. I stayed there for a while because I thought he might come back, but in the end I got up and legged it. I've got no idea how long I was there, but I spent a long time afterwards just wandering the streets. I didn't know where I was, I had no money, no new clothes, no food. I didn't want to come back because I was still totally messed up, and I thought you had done it. I started nicking stuff to eat and sleeping wherever I could. And then I started to remember everything, like how to read a street sign, so then I knew where I was. I remembered the right bus to get on to get to this area. But I was still scared, until a couple of days ago, that it was you. So I didn't get the bus, I just stayed where I was. The thing is though, I remembered it was you, and you would never do that to me. So I had to nick some more money, and I got the bus here. Except I still wasn't right, and I insulted a mob of teenagers. They beat me up again, chased me back here. That was why I was so worried when I arrived. But you helped me again. Like you always do."

**What do you think? Vince is back, at least, so yay! Reveiws are still very welcome **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello, me again. Not quite sure why I'm saying that, as who else would it be? But anyway, here is your next chapter to be read at leisure. Enjoy it :)**

**Disclaimer: If I owned the Boosh, many things would be different, and I'll let you work that out for yourselves...**

Howard was trying to conceal the emotions that fought for prevalence inside his mind. He wanted to curse at Vince for going up to that building, shout at him for being stupid enough to think he would ever hurt him. But he also wanted to check he was okay from all the drugs, he wanted to hug him close and tell him it would never happen again, he promised. In the end, he settled for placing a hand gently on Vince's shoulder and saying:

"You know I would never do that, right?"

"Yeah, I know. I wouldn't be here otherwise." He reached up and put his hand on top of Howard's, smiling gently, wearily.

"Alright." Howard said eventually. "Are you okay?"

"Considering all that, I'm not too bad. Really tired though."

"You can go to bed for a bit, if you like. No one's touched your stuff since you left."

"Oh. Thanks. Yeah, I'll go to bed for a few hours. See you." He limped towards their bedroom and got into bed. It wasn't long before Howard heard gentle snores.

* * *

Vince woke up as the sun was setting. He hobbled back through to the living room to find Howard just putting down the phone. He turned as Vince walked in, a pained and uneasy expression on his face.

"What's up, Howard?" Vince asked warily. "Who was that?"

"That was Bollo." He replied. "Not an easy conversation to begin with, but... we have to go to the shaman lodge. They're picking us up in an hour."

"Why?" Howard took a deep, calming breath.

"It's Naboo."

"Oh, no. He's not… dead?"

"No. Not yet." Howard grimaced at how morbid this sounded. "I mean… he's getting worse. They told us we should come as soon as we can, so I told them to bloody well get us there."

"No…" Vince covered his face with his hands, whispering denials into them. "No, this is my fault."

"Vince, I've told you, it was a coincidence. Please, stop blaming yourself." Vince looked up, then back down at the floor. Howard hugged him, ignoring the false shudder that ran down his spine. He received a hug in return, Vince standing on tiptoe so they were about the same height.

"I guess I should tidy myself up?" he whispered.

"We both should. You go first, though." Howard pulled away from the hug, and Vince nodded and lowered himself down to his normal height. He went into the bedroom and Howard heard him digging around in the wardrobe for something to wear, before disappearing into the bathroom. It took him half an hour to shower, change and sort his hair out. Howard used the bathroom next, washing, shaving and putting on some decent, respectable clothes. Lastly, he put on his faithful hat and left the bathroom. Vince was standing in front of the mirror with a pair of scissors in his hand, holding them dangerously close to his neck. His hand was shaking.

"Vince," Howard said, "What are you doing?" Vince spun around quickly.

"Oh! I was going to cut my hair, but my hands aren't steady enough."

"Let me." Vince nodded, and Howard crossed the room and took the scissors from him. He turned him around and began to trim the overgrown hair at his back.

"Thank you, Howard." Vince muttered.

"It's my pleasure." He cut in silence for a few seconds; the only sound in the flat was the steady scraping of the sharp blades. "This'll have to be quick, you know."

"I know, it's fine. Just take a few inches off. It looks weird." Howard continued his fast slicing of extra hair, letting it fall onto Vince's shoulders. It wasn't long before he was finished and sweeping it gently from his satin jacket and onto the floor. Vince turned and looked in the mirror, pulling sections of hair around his face to hide the faint bruises that still lasted. He took a deep breath and nodded.

"I'm ready." He said quietly.

"Me too." Howard sat down on the back of the sofa, facing the window, looking out into the dusk. Vince came up and stood in front of him.

"Howard, take your hat off." He commanded.

"What? Why?"

"I want to see your hair." Howard sighed and removed the trilby, placing it on his lap.

"Wow." Vince said. "You've grown it." A small smile again traced across his lips.

"Not deliberately. It was more like not bothering to cut it because I couldn't see the point."

"Oh. Well, I did that too, and mine went all wonky." He considered this for a moment. "Maybe yours just grows straighter."

"Maybe." There was a sudden rushing noise from outside, and a quiet sputtering. The smell of burning magical 'herbs' infiltrated the window, a smell they knew from Naboo. The shamans had parked the carpet outside the shop door. As they went down the stairs, Vince and Howard heard two raucous voices raised in argument:

"This is a nightmare! I'm gonna chuck!"

"Oh, wonderful, you're going to be sick. Again. This happens every time!"

"It's not my fault! I've got a sensitive stomach!"

"You have no stomach, Harrison."

"I 'ave! I've got five!"

"You don't have five stomachs; you have a head like a ball sack and some tentacles."

"I do, I've got at _least_ three stomachs!"

"Harrison, you're a cleft." The unmistakeable voice of Dennis the head shaman cut in to say:

"Please! This is not appropriate. Our comrade is gravely ill, and you are arguing like… well, like you always do! Desist!" The voices grew silent as Vince and Howard opened the shop door and stepped out into the cool evening. They were bowed to mutely, respectfully, as they climbed aboard. They were informed that Kirk had been left behind to help Bollo care for Naboo, and that while their tiny shaman friend had been asleep when they left, he may be roused when they got there. However, they were told tactlessly by Tony Harrison not to get their hopes up for him pulling through. Although Saboo swiftly batted him over the head, nearly hard enough to send him off the carpet; they had an uncomfortable knowledge deep inside them that he was correct.

**I've wanted to do an argument between Tony Harrison and Saboo for ages. Maybe putting it in this one was inappropriate, but never mind. It made me smile. Reviews are glorious :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**WAHEY! I'm back! God, it seems like ages since I uploaded anything, which it probably is. But hey, I have two weeks of exams coming up and a stinking cold, so I've been busy revising and sneezing. By the way, I promise I will update Return of the Boosh ASAP, hopefully next weekend or maybe on Monday if I have the time. Hope you enjoy this chapter :)**

**Disclaimer: Well, what the hell do you think?**

The shamans were uncomfortably silent throughout the carpet ride, and Vince and Howard dared not interrupt. It came to an end quickly, with Dennis driving much faster than usual to get them back to the forest. They touched down in a small clearing, and, true to his word, Tony Harrison vomited copiously over the edge of the carpet. Saboo merely rolled his eyes, picked him up, and took him back to the Shaman Lodge. Dennis followed, leaving Vince and Howard trailing behind. They stayed on the overgrown path and found themselves in another clearing, this one containing a large table, around which several shamans sat already, a few cells, and a bed. Dennis was standing at the head of the bed, and Kirk lingered nearby, wearing a white coat and stethoscope. Bollo sat on the other side of the bed, holding the occupant's frail hand carefully. Howard reverentially removed his hat. When they saw Vince and Howard approach, Dennis and Kirk left the bed, walking slowly over to the table, shaking their heads. Even Saboo looked concerned. Bollo looked up and stared.

"Precious Vince! You are not dead!" he said. He got up from his place at Naboo's bedside and hugged Vince so tightly he could barely breathe. They were happy to see each other again, but neither of them could truly show it. Not here, as their best friend lay dying. Bollo let go of Vince, nodded noncommittally at Howard, and went back to his seat. He took Naboo's hand again, and squeezed it tightly.

"Ow. Bollo, let go, you ball-bag." Naboo muttered, without any other reaction. Howard's eyes widened.

"Is that good?" he whispered.

"Not really," Bollo replied. "He been doing that all day."

"He looks so different. Like… Like he's not even here anymore." Vince murmured.

"He's not, in his head. Who knows where he is there." Dennis said, making them all jump after sneaking up silently.

"Can we do anything?" Vince asked.

"You could just sit with him. Talk to him." Vince looked at Dennis, nodded, and sat down on the opposite side of the bed to Bollo. He took the little shaman's other hand and said:

"Hey, Naboo. It's me. I'm back. I wasn't dead, you know. I got kidnapped by Howard's double, and I got that thing… when you can't remember stuff. What's it called, Howard?"

"Amnesia?"

"Yeah, amnesia. I got amnesia, and I couldn't come back. But now I have, and I find out that you're dying. Please, Naboolio, come back." Vince bowed his head and let the tears run silently down his cheeks. The others, concentrated on comforting him, didn't notice Naboo's eyelids flicker.

"Vince?" Came the faint murmur from the bed. They turned to see him open his eyes and look at him. "Alright, Vince?"

"Naboo! You're awake!" Vince began to grin, his face lighting up in a happiness he hadn't felt for over a month.

"And you're alive! What happened?"

"Um… It's a really long story, and I'd rather not tell it here."

"Oh, got you." Naboo sat up, and said: "Right, we going then or what?"

"Hang on, hang on." Dennis protested. "You were inches from death a minute ago, what's going on?"

"Well, I'm better now." Naboo shrugged. "I was only ill cause he wasn't here." He gestured at Vince, and then hopped off the bed and towards where his own magic carpet was hidden under a fallen tree. Vince and Howard stared at him in shock. Naboo rolled out the magic carpet and started it up as he and Bollo climbed aboard. Then he called across to Howard and Vince.

"Well? Come on, you pair o' jerk-offs, unless you want to stay here with these pricks." They scrambled onto the carpet too, and it took off into the night sky, leaving Dennis blustering in their wake.

Later that night, Bollo, Vince and Howard sat in the living room together, discussing Naboo as he was safely out of earshot.

"So, it was some sort of incurable disease caused by magic." Vince said flatly.

"Yes." Bollo replied. "And he couldn't get to his powers to heal it."

"Why couldn't he?"

"Because you weren't here. He told you."

"How does that work, though? It doesn't make any sense; he's a four hundred year old shaman, why does he need me?"

"All shamans store their power somewhere. Most use a magical amulet, or a crystal ball. But Naboo thick. He use you. You carry his powers around."

"Wait, does that make me a shaman?"

"No. You only carrier. You cannot use them."

"Oh." Vince looked disappointed.

"Wait a minute," Howard piped up, "Surely that means that if Vince really had died, Naboo would have lost his powers?"

"Yes. As I say. Naboo thick."

"I 'eard that, you hairy ball-bag." Naboo said, walking in with an armful of magic books. "C'mon Bollo, help me get my stuff set up." Bollo sighed and got up, stroking Vince's hair on the way past. Vince smiled a little, but ducked away from the ape's touch. Instead he shuffled closer to Howard, who was sitting on the floor at the far end on the sofa, closer to the fireplace. He looked around as he noticed Vince shuffling over, and then smiled.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Better now, I think." Vince replied. "It's nice to have Naboo back, and Bollo."

"What about me?"

"And you, yeah."

"Yeah. It's good to have you back as well." Vince seemed to be pondering for a second until he said:

"Howard? Can I ask you a random question?"

"Ask away."

"Did they put up a gravestone for me?" The question shocked Howard a little, and he frowned. But he regained his composure and replied:

"Yeah, they did. Your family."

"Hm. Some family they were. Anyway, what did it say?"

"Oh, you know, the usual stuff. 'Here lies Vince Noir, 1973-2012, he will always be missed.' That was what they decided on; I didn't get a choice in the matter."

"Oh. Bit lame, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I did give them one thing to put on it. They let me say one thing for you."

"Go on."

"'Let the earth rest lightly upon you.' That was all I was allowed."

"Oh. Y'know, Howard, that's just a little bit beautiful." Vince tilted his head and smiled his smile, eyes glinting like opals, brightening now as his world began turning again. Howard returned the smile with a sense of calm, the easing of stress and pain, the realisation that although it may take years to heal completely; things were going to be alright now. Things were good. Things were the way they should be.

**Yay, happiness! :3 Next chapter will arrive god-knows-when, but as soon as I can, I promise! I have half term after my exams, so maybe then? I don't know. Anyway, reviews are fabby and I love everyone who reviews me :D**


End file.
